


Project H.O.U.N.D.

by HHarris



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF John, Baskerville Research Facility, Blood and Gore, Dark John, Delusions, Hallucinations, Imaginary Sherlock, John as a test subject, John-centric, Project H.O.U.N.D., Psychological Horror, Rage, The thin line between nightmare and reality, Tumblr Prompt, not that kind of fic, probably no smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 20:50:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2322767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HHarris/pseuds/HHarris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock AU: Captain John Watson is discharged from Her Majesty’s Armed Forces in November of 2011. Having virtually nothing to go back to, he volunteers for an experimental drug, the H.O.U.N.D. project. Starting January 29th, 2012, patient zero begins to have hallucinations, widely featuring a man presumed to be ‘Sherlock Holmes’ and their frankly ridiculous adventures. The project was ultimately deemed a failure.</p>
<p>Tumblr prompt by LestradeBBC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Project H.O.U.N.D.

<<Transcript #P0JW_51, Recording Date: 03.18.12, 02:55>>

_Is that him?_

_Yes, we’ve been monitoring his status for three days, Sir. No change._

_You’ve put him on the blockers?_

_Full dose. As I said, no effect. He just — talks. And writes. When he’s not —_

_It’s time he got some exercise, doctor. Take them out. And bring backup._

//END 

* * *

 John’s feet pounded over wet leaves, adrenaline coursing as he chased Sherlock into the darkness. Sherlock raced ahead in pursuit of their quarry, gaining ground, long legs carrying him ahead while John’s slipped and faltered.

“Wait — Sherlock!” John swore under his breath but ran on.

He crested a hill and wavered, feet slipping on wet moss _._ John skidded down the muddy bank, crashing through shrubs, narrowly avoiding trees while he ran blind, heart tight and high in his throat.

_Don't leave me here, you bastard._

John reached for his gun, which was — his face twisted —  _gone, of course._  He slowed to catch his breath, head spinning. _Took my bloody gun. Fucking of course! You unbelievable —_

“Over here, John!” Sherlock’s voice sounded to his left across the moor, odd and distorted through the swaying branches. He narrowed his eyes against the horizon, searching for hints of Sherlock's long silhouette ghosting in the wood. 

It was too dark to see, the only illumination cast from moonlight refracting in the fading mist. A long, low chorus of wolves came from behind, urging John back into action. He trotted ahead, eyes searching wildly for Sherlock's position, keeping ahead of the urgent sound of boots and radio chatter.

“MOVE, John! He’s getting away!”

John finally spotted a familiar swirl of jacket through the trees and took off as fast as he could, holding his (probably) broken arm rigid against his body.

They were out of the complex, but the battle wasn’t behind them. After weeks of hiding within the Major’s ranks, they’d been forced to make a rather hasty escape when John’s Czech hadn’t held out. _Keep your head down, John. Don’t make friends._  Bundled in the back of the stolen military cruiser, John cursed the day he met Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft’s initial intelligence had belied the number of soldiers at the Major’s command. He had far more support than they’d bargained for. And dogs — no, _wolves_ — accompanying his ground forces. Bloody big mean ones, too. The _size_ of those things. They were the stuff nightmares were made of.

John’s stomach cramped from running for what seemed like hours. His thighs burned from overuse, feet unsure on the mossy hills. He lept over a fallen log and misjudged the next hill, slick with rain. He tumbled down the other side and landed heavily on a cluster of rocks, tasted blood.

He lay dazed, waiting for the ringing in his ears to subside. He listened for footfalls, for low growling or radio static but heard only his own strained panting. Groaning, he spat a mouthful of blood into the sour dirt, wiped more of it off his lips.

John called out to Sherlock, with no reply. Cursing his lost flashlight, his stolen gun, he labored to his feet and sucked his bottom lip. Perhaps they’d lost their pursuers for now. But there were cameras everywhere in the wood (you could count on that).

The wind, rain and oily fog made the forest around him dance. Mist swirled in acrid wisps, somehow visible in the darkness. It coated his skin, his clothes, the back of his tongue. John searched his pockets in vain for his phone. Of course that was gone, too. _Just like Sherlock to run ahead alone, that utter cock. When I find him I’ll —_

An inhuman roar from a nearby ridge snapped John to attention. Framed against the moonlight, he caught sight of Sherlock locked in battle against a smaller figure — their arms flying, bodies tumbling over the crest of hills ahead of him. The hollow sound of fists on skin, a flash of metal. You idiot. _You idiot!_

Panic crept into his vision, going white around the edges. He heard gunfire, three shots. John held his breath, anticipating a cry — but to his relief, none came. Instead, a more horrifying sound echoed through the moor — the keen of wolves, now closer, sounding out their position.

John launched himself over the lip of the hill, legs windmilling as he flew to the fighting men, a tangle of arms, legs, and fingernails pressed into throats. The attacker had gained control and straddled Sherlock's chest, his ruined fists pounding fully into Sherlock’s face. His head tipped back as he rained down blows, whooping in mad glee.

John lunged forward, shouldering the attacker off of Sherlock who lay motionless on the ground. John fought with teeth and claws, his opponent battling back in kind. Gales of laughter poured from his twisted lips. With his good arm, John aimed to twist his head clean off. He wanted to kick the smiling teeth out of his fucking mouth. That monster. That _animal_.

Grasping his shirt in one fist, John slammed his forehead down onto his nose, felt bone crumbling beneath him as the body went limp against the hill.

John rolled off the body and heaved labored breaths. He shook the stars from his eyes and adjusted his vision. "Sherlock?" He gaped in the darkness, fumbling forward with one hand searching for his body. _How bad was he?_ _Where was he?_

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?” John rasped, fumbling through the leaves, ignoring the clenching in his gut and the waves of nausea that passed over him. He searched out his fallen partner desperately, clawing at the ground, but finding nothing.

_Christ_. He was _right_ here, just now. John was sure of it. “Sherlock Holmes, I swear to _God_ —“

A sudden, threatening growl from behind turned John’s blood to ice. _Shit shit shit!_ John’s mind repeated like a prayer. He willed his legs to move but nothing worked. His body had turned to rock.

John kneeled, paralyzed and shoulder-level with the red, glowing eyes closing in on the clearing. His conscious mind hadn’t the time to argue what color wolves’ eyes were supposed to be, or how _big_  wolves could get. He just sat there dumbly, blankly, wishing for a miracle.

None came.

A large male hurled himself at John, pinning him down and lunging at his throat. John raised his broken arm to meet his teeth, felt thick canines puncture muscle. The sky wavered and opened up red.

John choked back his screams. He punched at the side of the beast’s head, drew his knees up to kick at his stomach, force his body away. The pack growled their approval, patiently waiting their turn. 

A burst of gunfire from the forest edge drew the pack’s attention. The animals released John and scattered back into the trees. The ground trembled and felt as if it would swallow him. John was fading in and out of consciousness, his body cold and heavy from blood loss. He was racked with convulsions and began to retch.

Suddenly there was radio chatter and pounding feet on all sides. Military vehicles rumbled up the hill, blinding him with lamps. Masked men pressed in on all sides, pushing John’s nose into the forest floor and twisting his mangled arms high on his back to bind them. John sobbed against the ground, inhaling peat. Three men knelt on his back, struggling to get a mask on him.

“We’ve got him, doctor.” A disembodied voice radioed in nearby. “Broken arm, but could be worse. He’s completely unhinged.”  
“Find the other one.”

A needle plunged into John’s neck and he roared up protest. Fire flooded his throat as three men pulled him into the air, tried to force him into a truck.

“ _RUN, SHERLOCK_!” John bellowed toward the hill and soldiers poured over the ridge, chasing his screams through the trees. John kicked with weakening legs at helmets, feet skidding over armored chests. His ragged howls echoed through the trees in counterpoint to the melodious wailing of receding wolves.

John kicked hard and his foot connected with a soldier’s throat, cracked the glass face of his helmet. Spit flew as he battled them midair. The soldier crumpled to the forest floor, wailing and clawing at his mask. John was hoisted bodily into the truck and shut into the darkness.

Chest heaving, disoriented, John’s knees skidded on the pooling blood on the rubber mat. He drove his forehead into the glass over and over, grunting with effort. Adrenaline receding, John slumped to the floor, sobbing helplessly as the sedative began to take effect.

The jeep started up and rumbled through the woods in the direction of the complex. John rocked his forehead against the mat, battling unconsciousness.

Another voice crackled out over the radio, “We’ve found the other one, sir, but he’s bad off — face all bashed in, unresponsive, losing blood. They killed six of our guys, the fucking animals.”

_No —_ John retched again, shaking violently. _God, no._ John moaned in protest, issuing a wordless prayer to the swirling stars. _Please let Sherlock be alive._

* * *

John passed in and out of consciousness. The rough rumble of the Jeep. Blinding lights at the complex gate. Radio chatter. Badges passed through windows. Fragments of small talk made between small minds.

“Where’s Sherlock?” he croaked to the lieutenant who loaded him out of the Jeep. He threw glances at the other officers who laughed cruelly. “Who, mate?”

John tried to lift his chest to the junior officer. “You know who he fucking is, _lieutenant_ ” he intoned, his tongue fat and useless. More laughing. _Bastards._  

He was led through the halls of the complex, a twisting maze of elevators and doors with tiny portholes peeking in on bare 10x10 rooms. Two bodies per room, wrapped in plain, tan jumpsuits. Standard issue. Numbered.

Mycroft hadn’t mentioned this wing in his brief.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he pleaded weakly with the guards, “I need to see him.” More laughter. Their cold, too-tight skin was stretched tight over sharp bones. Faces and teeth, too, too white like bleached bone. Everything white, too white. Too bright. John swayed as he walked, nausea crashing over him in waves.

They passed a larger room, with at least a dozen men visible through the porthole. They were leering in a circle around a long, thin form crumpled on the floor, protecting his face. His shock of black curls was matted with blood and leaves. They were taking turns cheering and attacking him with fists and shoes.

John stopped in his tracks and launched himself at the door, his breath fogging the glass. “Get off him — _Get off him_!" He cried out to the men, the guards — anyone who would listen. “God’s sake, please! _They're killing him!_ ” John struggled against hands pulling at his shoulders and waist. He dug in, letting his shoes streak the floor as he fought to hold his position.

One of the men at the back perked up at the commotion and slowly turned to face John, his teeth bared in a mocking smile. John’s heart pumped ice water. He was dressed as the others, but his slicked-back hair and intelligent, pooling brown eyes betrayed him.

John raged against the door. “You’re _dead_ , Jim, you’re fucking _dead!_ ” The men in the cell laughed and flapped their hands at the door, waving John off. The man turned, all trace of humor gone from his lips. He snaked slowly back to the body. Sherlock curled weakly to protect his ribs and stomach, which were now quaking with broken sobs.

John groaned, his tongue heavy as the guards give him another injection. His muscles wouldn't respond. Nothing worked. Even if his throat would obey, his mind and body were too broken to form words. His despair was immeasurable. They would never get out of here alive, he was sure of that. Not both of them.

Lost in himself, John slipped into crushing darkness. He had no dreams.


End file.
